Findecano Decides to Become an Artist
by Naz
Summary: ...or How He Roped Maitimo Into Being a Model. Findecano decides to become an artist, & that he needs Maitimo's help. Written for kind of The Silmarillion's 30th anniversary. K just to be safe.


It was relatively early when the knock on the door came. Maitimo called to his mother that he would get it, & opened it to reveal Findecáno. He cut off Maitimo's greeting:

"I've decided to become an artist."

He walked past Maitimo, who noticed he was carrying a bag. Drawing utensils stuck out of the pockets.

"This shall last a week," Maitimo muttered to himself. "During which time, he will drag me along with him."

Sure enough, Findecáno's voice came shouted back at him: "Come _on_, Maitimo!" The red head rolled his eyes & followed the voice to his own room, where Findecáno was dumping the contents of his bag onto Maitimo's bed.

"I shall, of course, need your help."

"Of course."

"So take off your clothes."

Nelyafinwë Maitimo arched an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

Findecáno sighed, rolling his eyes. "I must study the figure," he said impatiently. "For that, I need a model. Without clothes. So take them off!" Maitimo took a second to glare at the younger Noldo, before pulling at his belt& pulling his tunic over his head.

There came a knock. "Yes?" Maitimo called, extricating himself from his tunic. Macalaurë poked his head in, about to speak, & stopped. "What is it, Macalaurë?"

"What are you _doing?_" he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Findecáno has decided he wants to become an artist."

"Of the visual persuasion, I observe." Macalaurë's lips twitched more energetically. Maitimo felt his face burning.

"And, as such, I must study the figure," Findecáno explained again, adding cheekily: "And considering your brother's Mother name..." This earned him a dark glare. He merely smiled innocently.

Macalaurë shook with repressed laughter. Maitimo considered strangling the lot of them with his tunic, still in his hand. His hair was mussed; he was wearing his undergarments. Findecáno & his own brother were fully dressed & adorned, & their hair lay flat. If this wasn't a plot, he didn't know what was.

"What do you want, Macalaurë?" he repeated.

"Oh, nothing _really,_" grinned the younger. "Though now maybe I could stay to see the artist at work?"

"I am going to be _unclothed,_" Maitimo said, scandalized.

"Well, it's not like others haven't done it before. I've seen plenty of nudes in art."

_You are doing this just to embarrass me._ "I am your brother. It would not be right."

"I shall keep you two in check."

_Macalaurë!_

"Will you get out, you insufferable little nuisance? Or must I strangle you with my tunic?" Maitimo strode over to him & pushed him bodily out the door, & closed it. He turned to see Findecáno smirking. He frowned. "Insufferable. The both of you. I should make you find another model." He glared at Findecáno. He wasn't really angry; he was embarrassed. That _he_ should be made such a model, that his younger brother walked in on it, that said younger brother took such _pleasure_ in embarrassing him-- _Where did I go wrong with you, Macalaurë?_

Misplaced, innocent hurt was written on Findecáno's features. "Oh, but _Mai-ti-mo,_" he said imploringly, emphasizing the name. "Don't say such things. You would be the most _perfect_ model. I shall pay you back, in full."

"If you think flattering me will mollify me, you are sorely mistaken."

"Your words wound me so, Maitimo." Findecáno placed a hand on his heart, all wounded innocence. "I am not _trying_ to flatter you. That is only your perception of things. Now"--his eyes narrowed a little--"clothes off & over there." He pointed to the end of the bed opposite him. Maitimo sighed, shrugged off the rest of his clothes, & sat down. Ordering him around in his own home, his own _bedroom .Let him wait,_ Maitimo stewed. _I will get back at him when he least expects it._

A light blush stained Findecáno's cheeks. "Artists don't blush at their models," Maitimo said pointedly, covering himself nonetheless. "Nor do they gawk." He was no model, & Findecáno was no artist. As if anyone needed more proof of these facts.

"Oh, shut up," came the muttered reply.

Findecáno scooted up against the headboard & propped his paper & board up against his legs. He squinted & scrunched his face so that he looked, Maitimo thought, like a perturbed fish. "Maybe..." he said, tilting his head, "you should lie back a little."

Maitimo leaned back slowly, until he was told to stop at the most uncomfortable angle possible. "That's good," said the other, smiling.

_I will kill you for this._ "It's a little uncomfortable."

"Oh. Well, prop yourself up, then." He then fell to his drawing, & silence ensued. It was a little odd, Maitimo thought. Here they were, in his room, on the bed, completely silent, with Findecáno drawing him, nude & in the universe's most uncomfortable position. Everything about this was uncomfortable. If he had been a model, then it would be fine. But he wasn't. Why couldn't Findecáno go find an _actual_ model?

A knock came at the door, & the sound of drawing stopped. Both of them looked at each other-- a silent _now what?_

"Yes?"

"Nelyo?" Maitimo's heart stopped. Ata.

"_Very bad timing,_" Findecáno hissed in a panic.

"Nelyo, are you busy? Open the door."

Maitimo leapt up, threw his blankets about him like a makeshift dress, & opened the door.

Fëanáro's eyebrows nearly shot off his head. "And what, pray, are the two of you doing?"

"Improvisation, Atar," Maitimo replied smoothly. "Findecáno & I are attempting to master the art of such genius. Whenever I say something inspired, he writes it down."

"Of course."

"The blankets... make it more expressive! The way they flow." He swept his arm in a wide arc, a foolish, forced grin on his face. Findecáno was trying to discreetly kick the discarded clothes under the bed. "But... what did you want?"

"I was going to ask for your assistance in the forge. Yours & your brother's. If you can... postpone your genius." With one last glance at the two, he left.

Silently, Maitimo closed the door & hit his head against the wall. "_Fin-- de-- cá-- no,_" he groaned, "you will be the death of me! You are lucky I do not clam up like you when something like this happens."

"Your excuse was still weak," Findecáno snorted. "Improvisation; what in the--"

"Where are my clothes?" Maitimo asked, interrupting him.

"Under the bed."

"_Findecáno! You_ get them; I have suffered enough indignity."

When he was clothed again, he demanded to see the drawing.

"It's not like it's done yet," Findecáno said evasively.

"I don't care. I _demand_ to see it."

The other smirked. "You _are_ your father's son. _Prince_ of the Noldor." He leapt lightly up, sidestepping Maitimo's grab for the paper as he shoved it back into his bag. "You're blushing." He stepped past Maitimo & out the door, unhindered.

"Maitimo, Atar wants us in the forge," called Macalaurë wearily from down the hall. His brother barely heard him. He was too busy plotting.

_I u will /u get you back, Findecáno._


End file.
